Why He Cares
by KoreZephyrus
Summary: *First Published On AO3* Mutual pining and angst. Sherlock blames himself for Eurus and all the issues she caused. John wants him to take better care of himself.
1. Chapter 1

John

It wasn't everyday that I walked down the stairs from my room in 221B Baker Street to find Sherlock awake before me, and it was even less often that I would see him having fallen asleep while giving Rosie a morning bottle. But that made it all the better when it did occur, and I always took photos when it was the latter. If Sherlock knows about those, he hasn't said anything yet.

That morning, I stayed at the bottom of the stairs just a moment longer than normal, leaning against the wall. I admired the sight: Sherlock cradling our my child, his face for once relaxed, his head lolling slightly to the left. Rosie was just as calm, and her little hands tried to wrap around the bottle that Sherlock held for her. They both looked… content. Happy, even. For a baby that appearance was normal, but for Sherlock, it was rare to see this kind of calm happiness.

Normally when Sherlock was happy, it was a loud and energetic emotion; his anxious excitement was contagious. When Greg Lestrade called with a new case (preferably a homicide), a smile would appear that would rival the one spray-painted on the wall. If a client came in with an interesting case, Sherlock's eyes would have a glint similar to that of a child staring in awe at a wall full of their favorite sweets. And sometimes, his happiness would be at small things; we both knew the hound that Sherlock had commissioned when we had the case I named as The Six Thatchers was useless to the mission, but Sherlock insisted on keeping him around. I don't think I had ever seen him looking at a living creature that fondly before. Until Rosie, that is.

When Sherlock thought no one was watching, I sometimes would see him watching her as if she were the most interesting being he had ever seen. He didn't gaze as her with intensity, however. There was no fire in his eyes as he studied my child, just a flickering candlelight, soft and mild.

"John?"

I looked up and shook my head; I had been lost in thought.

"John? Are you alright?" It was Sherlock, eyes now open, looking like he wanted to move but was scared to in fear of disturbing Rosie.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm fine, got lost in thought is all." I wasn't going to tell him what I had been thinking about; I'd never hear the end of it. A nagging voice in the back of my head whispered and asked if that would really be so bad, for Sherlock to know how often John focused on him, for Sherlock to be given the facts so he could deduce why John was thinking about him so much, although that really was child's play, anyone could guess why-

"Thoughts? I didn't realize you had those."

Damn Sherlock, even when he was half-asleep he could make remarks that made John want to slap (or maybe kiss) him.

"Ah, shut up. Did you eat? I was going to make some eggs."

"Not hungry."

John sighed. He could see the outline of Sherlock's ribs through his baggy shirt, and he didn't need a medical degree to know that Sherlock didn't eat enough. He had tried to talk to Sherlock about it, but the man had refused, either changing the topic or walking away and ignoring him. John had half a mind to text Mycroft about it, but he didn't want to involve him just yet. So instead of responding, John simply left and went to make breakfast. He would contemplate that problem later.

Sherlock

I watched John head into the kitchen. I felt what I recognized as a twinge of guilt as he walked away, I knew me not eating was what was bothering him. I decided then that I would take him to lunch later, it would assuage his worries a bit. But for now, Rosie was done drinking, and she wanted to play.

While I watched her play with a teddy bear that Ms. Hudson had gifted her, I let my mind wander. John had been watching the two of us for a while before I had come out of my trance-like sleep. I assumed it was because he was watching Rosie at first, but he had been staring directly at me- not looking at Rosie, not staring into space. There is a difference between spacing out and looking at, and John had been looking. Obviously it had been subconscious, judging by his reaction when I spoke to him, but what did that mean? For a fleeting moment I wondered if he might be in love with me, if he perhaps was longing for me, but I quickly dismissed the thought. He had already rejected me, whether he knew it or not. The very day after we had moved in together, I had tried to take him out on a date; I guess I hadn't made my intentions quite clear. I do think I might have confused him a bit, what with the murder and all. Or perhaps, I had read him incorrectly back then, got my hopes up too much, let them blind me. I glanced at Rosie, making sure she was fully occupied before I let myself wander into my mind palace and find the memory.

"_Girlfriend?"_

"_No, not really my area." I was trying to tell John I was gay; he must have gotten that, at least. He wasn't quite as observant as he is now, but he wasn't a complete idiot, either. I watch my memory of John, the way he awkwardly nods for a moment, the way his eyes dart to both sides. I know he'd denied being my date a minute before, but perhaps he didn't want to label anything, perhaps- no, definitely- he didn't realize that I had him there as a course, he was a war veteran, likely not one to jump into relationships of any kind quickly. _

"_So, uh, do you have a boyfriend, then? Which is fine, by the way."_

_I re-studied John in that moment. Why did he rush to say it was fine? People today are much more accepting than they were when Mycroft and Eurus and I were school-age, they don't normally condemn you on the spot for your sexual preference. I had gone through that, but it didn't seem to me that John had. His brother had been an alcoholic married to a woman- he was most likely straight-, was his sister bullied? Did John perhaps have to stand up for her like Mycroft and Victor had for me? I couldn't tell. That was a first, for me._

"_I know it's fine." And why had he seemed so nervous about asking if I did have a boyfriend? Was he trying to fill the silence, was he trying to find out things about me that he didn't have the mental capacity to observe, or was there a possibility that he could have thought we could be a couple?_

"_So you've got a boyfriend then."_

"_No."_

"_Right. Okay. You're unattached… just like me. Fine. Good."_

_I truly couldn't tell if John was asking because he liked me or if he was just making small talk. Quickly, I came up with an idea, I'd make him think I didn't want a date, I would be able to tell then, I'd read his face and learn what John truly wanted from this. I was already speaking aloud before I could fully process the possible outcomes._

_John interrupted me, assured me that he wasn't asking *that*, that he was just saying it was all fine. It was a metaphorical slap in the face._

I snapped back to reality as Rosie's teddy bear literally hit me in the face. I smiled a bit and teasingly scolded her, watching her imitate John's smile, watching her eyes glint in the same mischievous way that his do.

I still couldn't fully tell, even after visiting the memory. Was it my hopes again, getting in the way of my deductions? I really needed to stop that. For a fleeting second I considered asking Mycroft his opinion, but I waved that away. He had always said that love was a weakness; I refused to let him know that I was in it.

Did I just admit to myself that I was in love with John? I push that to the back of my mind. I was still getting used to not repressing my feelings, and I did not feel that this one would be the best to start with. Rosie throws her toy at me again, so I stop thinking about John and instead busy myself with her.


	2. Chapter 2

John

"Sherlock. Will you please eat something?"

"Why don't we go out to lunch?"

I blinked in surprise. It was more of a statement than a question. I had expected an argument, and instead got… compliance? From Sherlock Holmes? Odd, but if it meant Sherlock would eat something, I wouldn't question it. I was about to reply, before Sherlock cut me off with a wave of his hand. Of course he knew what I was going to say.

"I already talked to Molly, she wanted to know if she could steal her away for a bit anyway- Rosie, I mean- so I asked if she'd want to watch her while I treated you to lunch."

It took a moment for me to process everything, and the second the "okay" finally slipped out of my mouth, the doorbell rang.

"Molly's here!" Ms. Hudson's voice rang, and the door was opened, and we heard Molly's footsteps rushing upstairs, and there she was, reaching for Rosie, hadn't even taken her coat off yet. and everything was moving around me quite quickly, it almost felt as though I'd blanked out and missed something- but it was no matter, because Sherlock was already moving. I muttered a quick goodbye to Molly and Ms. Hudson- when had she come upstairs?-, gave Rosie a kiss on the head, and raced after Sherlock.

Of course, there was already a taxi waiting. Sherlock had that damn smirk on his face as he held the door for me. Glaring at him, I climb into the backseat, though I'm sure Sherlock noticed my slight amusement at his antics.

"Northumberland Street, please!" He told the cabbie as he clambered in next to me. I'm almost surprised, sometimes, that he doesn't get all tangled up with those long limbs of his. The door slammed shut, and I shivered a bit. In trying to hurry after this tall man with hair that surely hid devil horns, I'd left my coat.

"John. You haven't brought your coat."

"No shit, Sherlock." It was an automatic response. Part of me wanted to tell him that I was almost worried that he'd leave without me; that I wanted to make sure I didn't lose him again. It's all too easy to lose Sherlock Holmes, his mind moves too quickly for his own good.

I looked over at Sherlock. His eyes were trained on me. I could never tell what he was thinking. And, as usual, before I got a chance to ask, Sherlock's arm was outstretched. He was holding out his scarf.

"John, I don't particularly fancy the idea of my best friend freezing to death, take this. It's better than nothing."

I took the scarf, sending a questioning glance to Sherlock, but his head was already turned back to the window.

Sherlock

When we arrive at the restaurant, Angelo is at the front, almost like he was waiting for us. Seeing John, he raises an eyebrow at me, questioning.

Angelo realized the first time I brought John here that I saw something special in him- hence his calling John my date and bringing out a candle to "set the mood". I almost wished, back then, that I had stopped him, to prevent John from realizing the truth- Angelo wasn't assuming anything, he was making deductions based off his observations. Luckily, John never realized it. But Angelo remembered, and had told me the next time he saw me alone to let him know if we became "a thing".

I shake my head.

John motions to the table by the window. Of course he does.

"This is the same restaurant we came to when we were on the case of the Pink Lady."

_We_. John said we, not you. He was referring to us as a team, though I was really the one that did everything on that case, it was his first one after all, can't expect him to hop on right away…

I am pulled out of my thoughts by something scratching my face. A menu. Oh, right. John is going to make me eat something. I take it from his hands.

"John, is it really fair of you to be nagging at me to eat? I mean, you know how it is. When we first met you were hardly any better off than I am, physically speaking." I watched John carefully, waiting for a response. Though it may have been for different reasons, it was obvious that John had started gaining weight once we started living and working together. He obviously knew what it was like to not feel a need to eat.

"Sherlock? Uh, Sherlock? Are you alright there, mate?"

Apparently I had not spoken aloud.

"Yes, yes, I'm perfectly fine. Got lost in thought is all, John…" I liked the way his name tasted on my tongue.

"Well, _I _am getting ELEPHANT. I don't know about you, but it IS going to be something more than tea. Or coffee," John adds, likely the slight smirk on my face. At this, I sigh dramatically, leaning back in my chair and putting my hands in a steeple position, pointer fingers resting on my nose, searching for a way to get out of this. None of the scenarios I could picture had a favorable result.

"We're not on a case. You have to eat. You can't survive on adrenaline and tea, Sherlock."

"I don't. Sometimes I skip the tea," I meant to sound light hearted, but the words came out a bit colder than I had meant for them to. John gives me a worried look; he l seems almost disappointed. "I'm… sorry, John. I meant to be joking. I'll get the same as you."

John looks mildly relieved at this, and the tension between us lessens. He continues to examine the menu, for what, I am unsure. I am more focused on him, his thought processes, something I would very much like to understand. As of now, I don't know if I ever will understand him.

I don't know why he worries about me. The only person who ever cared about me like this was Mycroft. But this wasn't this same. I couldn't figure out what made it different.

What made John different.


	3. Chapter 3

**John**

I had made sure Sherlock ate all of his food. Angelo insisted on waiting on our table, which wasn't too odd, considering that he still felt he owed Sherlock. What was odd, however, were the glances the two would exchange when he came by. I'm no William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but I can be observant from time to time. I'm not a complete idiot. I didn't bring it up to Sherlock at all, but I had a feeling the glances had something to do with him and me. The first time we had been here when we moved in to 221B Baker Street together, when he dragged me along on the case of the Pink Lady. Angelo had referred to me as his date, even brought out a candle- a CANDLE, for Christ's sake. Surely, as a person who'd met Sherlock, he knew that the man was incapable of love.

_ Got that, John? He won't fall in love, and if he ever did it would be The Woman, _ ** _not you_ ** _ . _

I shake my head. We'd arrived back at our flat about fifteen minutes ago, and I was waiting for Sherlock to get out of the shower. I need to stop thinking about that man. I knew he couldn't love me back, so I could not allow myself to fall for him.

I shut my eyes tightly. Distraction, that's what I need. There are dogs barking in the distance. Dishes clattering in the kitchen of the cafe below us. The water running in the shower. Moaning coming from the bathr-

Wait, what?

I listen closer. Nothing. Was I that infatuated, that I was hearing things?

I sigh. Is it better to hallucinate something I could never have, or to hear gunshots and cries of pain?

I wasn't sure.

Before I knew it, I fell into a trance-like sleep on the couch. I heard when Sherlock finally got out of the shower, but was too tired to force my eyes open.

* * *

**Sherlock**

I let scalding hot water burn my neck. John had been watching me, making sure I had eaten. It hurt, in a way. I don't dislike eating because of a fear of gaining weight; I have no concern for how I looked. I dislike eating because I know that the food is going to waste. It fuels the body of a junkie who scares people with his deductions. The body of a man who shouldn't be alive, who should've been shot in place of his best friend's wife. The body of a scared little boy who pretended he had no feelings so that people would stop trying to hurt them.

This had all started a long time ago; I was, as Mycroft has said, an emotional child. I never remembered why I had changed until I was reminded of Eurus.

I couldn't bring myself to hate her. It was my fault she turned out this way; I had ignored her when we were children. It had driven her to a point of insanity. She was truly emotionless. And it was, of course, my fault. I spent my life as a detective so I could alleviate boredom, yes, but also so that I could help people for once. I had hurt Eurus and that had in turn hurt my family, and it was my fault.

Of course, she knew that I had emotions locked up in my brain. She had taunted me with that. She knew that I cared deeply for Molly and made me hurt her; she knew I was thankful to Mycroft no matter how annoying and pretentious he was; she knew that I cared for John more than anyone or anything else in the world. And she used that against me, and I couldn't even blame her. It was my fault. If I'd been nicer to her, balanced my care for her and Victor Trevor, she never would've drowned him, never would've set fire to the house, never would've been taken away.

I wonder when I had replaced my memories of her. It made sense to me now, why I have always felt like I deserved a punishment for something. As a child, after Eurus was gone I'm sure, I had let other children bully me. They were quite stupid, but they had a point. At some point one found out that I was gay and spread the information, and I figured that that was why I deserved what I got, because of my interest in boys. But Mycroft and my parents assured me many times that it was okay; that it shouldn't matter to them who I liked. So I guess at some point I just placed up walls. I took on the persona of Eurus, without realizing who I was pretending to be. I was hurt by all the insults thrown at me, but if I didn't have emotions then nothing could hurt me.

Throughout primary school it was because I was gay; in secondary school I was a freak/weirdo/psycho because I was emotionless. But if I dropped the facade I would be tormented again for something else, I was sure of it. Even after school years it happened, so I kept the act and adopted it as a true part of me. Donovan and Anderson's voices echoed in my head. _ I'm sending the freak back _ ; _ stay away from him _ ; tell him to stop. I took it. I was helping people now and that is what mattered. I was helping families get closure. I was ridding the world of one more person who took pleasure in the sorrow and tears of others.

There was one person who never patronized me when I failed to keep up my act, one person who didn't think I was a monster. One person who stuck by me even when I disappointed him over and over again.

John Hamish Watson.

He wasn't clever like The Woman; he wasn't as watchful as Mycroft. He wasn't in my debt like Mrs Hudson or Angelo. And yet, he didn't seem scared of me, he didn't call me a monster. He simply stuck by my side, and of course he lost his temper sometimes. But he came back. He always came back. I know I am not the best at expressing it, but I value John above all else in this world. I wonder if he knows that; if he knows that I wasn't exaggerating or faking anything in my speech at his wedding with Mary. I am the absolute worst man anyone could ever have the misfortune of meeting, and there I was, being told that I was the best friend of an absolute angel. And there I was, being saved by someone John truly deserved because she thought I mattered more.

A moan slipped out of my throat unwittingly, snapping me back to reality. I found myself still in the shower, my hand in an intimate place. I had been thinking about John too much again. I pull my hand away and sigh. This was not an emotion I was equipped to deal with. Then again I was barely equipped to deal with basic sadness, basic joy.

John deserves better. 


	4. Chapter 4

**John**

The first time I met Mycroft Holmes, he told me to fire my therapist because I missed the war. He was right, in every way. I missed the adrenaline. I missed the danger.

Sherlock was a war. With him I could stay sane. Without him, I was depressed. During the two years he was playing dead, I was bored. Sad. Pessimistic. I guess I must have found a sense of familiarity in Mary, sensed the danger she could be, and that was why I was drawn to her.

My worst nights were the ones spent in boredom. There was nothing for me to fear; I had seen the worst things on the side of the battlefield. I never dreamt about those nights. They had been real, and I had dealt with them and acted in them and survived. My nightmares were all about situations I was helpless in.

A call that Harry had been in a drunk driving accident.

Coming home to 221B to find Mrs Hudson and Sherlock dead.

Moriarty kidnapping Sherlock and forcing me through puzzles I wasn't smart enough for to save him.

Sherlock, overdosed.

Sherlock, jumping.

Sherlock, broken bones, no pulse.

Mary, leaving.

Sherlock and Mary, rushing headfirst into danger.

Rosie, hurt.

Sherlock, gun in the mouth.

But these only appeared so long as I was bored and had time to think. Overthink. I am John Hamish Watson, I have to be strong enough to save them. I had bad days in Afghanistan. I couldn't have bad days in London. So when I started awake, at three in the morning, in my chair, in 221B Baker Street, I immediately wondered if they were okay.

Mrs Hudson - asleep in 221C.

Rosie - with Mrs Hudson (hopefully asleep)

Sherlock - shower?

If Sherlock wasn't in the shower- which at 3 AM, he better not be, or god help me- then he should be asleep in his room or staring out of our living room window or playing the violin.

There was no string music warbling through the flat. No one else was in the living room. I pull myself up with my cane, starting towards Sherlock's room.

**Sherlock**

Once an idea exists, it cannot be killed. No matter how many times my dear brother and my parents reminded me that gay didn't mean anything bad, I couldn't shake the idea that that must be the reason for my strangeness. If I felt guilty, there must be a reason. Since I did not remember Eurus, since I had written her out of my memories, I deduced the situation; and when there was nothing left, what remained was the truth.

I was guilty of something. Soon, though, I realized that it was not what I had done that mattered; what was important was that I repent.

And yet there was and still is a part of me that knew that wasn't true. But a louder voice screamed at me to repent. Sometimes I quieted the voice with drugs; other times I gave in to it.

Mycroft was ridden with anger and worry when he found out. He had convinced Mummy and Daddy to send me to the asylum. It was boring. I wasn't allowed pens or pencils. I was given crayons, but I was only allowed to use them under supervision. The boy I shared a room with wanted to get better. He was kind, and a good singer. So was girl who was "punished" with the solitary room. She wasn't allowed a roommate, and she wasn't allowed to leave the floor to go to the cafeteria or the poor excuse for a gym. She told me that she almost hung herself with the sheets in the middle of the night. I sympathized with her, but I had nothing to recover from. I faked my way through therapy sessions and was out in three days time.

Mycroft eventually stopped forcing me into rehab for drug usage. He didn't see the other reasons he might have wanted to confine me, because I was too good at hiding. So here I am now. In my room, kneeling to open my violin case. I kept one or two disposable razors in it at all times, as well as a few pencil sharpener blades that I had worked loose. Cutting myself had become a sort of ritual, and people had come to respect that I preferred long-sleeved dress shirts with no questions asked. Still, though, I tried to keep them hidden; just the inside of my forearm, easy enough to hide. Never the shoulders, I might have to annoy Mycroft by wearing a sheet toga to Buckingham Palace.

I didn't do it often. Self-harm wasn't my first choice. I always tried to silence the Voice first. Not eating, cigarettes, drugs, then cutting. Of course, today I was skipping. I had eaten more than I ever usually did today, and John had hidden my secret stash of cigarettes. And as he was staying here and as Rosie would be here, I didn't want to take the chance of hurting either while I was high. I pull up a sleeve. The last scars are months old; I had been doing quite well.

Footsteps. Creaking door. Silvery blonde hair glowing in the moonlight.

Lost in thought. Paper-white skin. Crimson blood drops, just a few.

A nightmare come true.

Speechless. Stuttering. Misunderstood.


	5. Chapter 5

John has seen worse. The first thing he needs to do is to stop the bleeding. He is on autopilot; the bathroom is across the hall. First aid, wounds not deep, bandages are fine. Alcohol swabs, just in case. Not listening to Sherlock when he came back and roughly took his arm. And he doesn't listen until Sherlock's arm is clean, and the cuts, though few and shallow, are bandaged.

Sherlock could only watch. He moves quickly. Carefully. And when he is done, he sits back on his knees. Sherlock waits.

Waits.

Wits.

But John doesn't move to yell at him, or even say he's disappointed.

Sherlock looks up at his doctor, and is greeted by patience and worry. This is John, not Mycroft, not Mum or Dad. This is John, not one of the many bullies from school, not someone at university calling him an outcast. This is John, not Moriarty, not Sally Donovan, not Anderson, not someone looking for a weakness to use against him. This is John, and Sherlock should know by now that John is going to stay there, right by his side.

But this is Sherlock we're talking about. And this man has been hiding depression behind the mask of sociopathy for over 15 years, and has not believed that anyone besides his immediate family could ever love him for even longer. So while even Mary could see that John could never truly leave Sherlock, it should be obvious by now that the tall young man has become a bit too broken to realize that he can be loved.

(Of course he knew the public loved him- but that was the Sherlock that was presented in John's blog, the one that made people amazed rather than uncomfortable and annoyed with his deductions, who solved crimes and helped families make peace with deaths of loved ones.)

So John is still here. Sitting on his knees, in front of Sherlock sitting cross-legged, waiting patiently because Sherlock can read minds and he should bloody know by now that John will want to know _why_ this happened. And there is a small ziploc bag with pencil sharpener blades on the floor, and one of those blades is still in Sherlock's unmoving pale hand, and the only light is that of the almost-full moon shining through the window across the room, and everything is quiet.

The trance is broken when John realizes Sherlock hasn't put his sharps away. He gently takes his hand and takes the blade, and takes the little ziploc bag, and moves them closer to himself.

"I'm sorry, John." It's quiet, so quiet John is almost surprised the words reached him. And he looks up into Sherlock's eyes, the ones he sees sparkling with glee when he learns of a new serial killer, and almost flinches when he sees them. The color hasn't changed, but even when Sherlock is bored there is still a hint of life. But what John sees now cannot be real. Because where there should be a trapped pair of cobalt hurricanes, there are glass orbs, like a doll's eyes. It is not a dead gaze, because they don't look like there was ever an ounce of life in them. And John hates it, because he's seen that before. He had seen it in Harry whenever she wasn't drunk. He had seen it in the Japanese girl he'd found in his chair one night, who Sherlock had convinced to come home with him so he could be sure she wouldn't be shooting herself in back alleyway. He had seen it in his own eyes when he'd finally accepted that his best friend was dead. And now he was seeing it in the eyes of the man his wife had taken a bullet for, the man who'd saved him from a fire, the man who lied to people in order to get them to come over for tea just so they wouldn't kill themselves, the man who'd been diagnosed as a genius at a young age.

John stayed quiet. If Sherlock wanted to talk, or felt that he needed to, he would let him before doing anything. But if he pushed John out of his room and locked the door, he would have to call Mycroft. He took Sherlock's hands in his own, and just looked at him, silently trying to let him know that John was there for him.

"I'm sorry." It was a bit louder, this time. John squeezed his hands softly, just so he knew he was being heard. "It's not what you think, it's-" Sherlock pauses for a moment, shakes his head, "-no, I don't even know what you think. I don't know what I would think. Just so you know, you're the only one who knows about this, Mycroft only knows about the drugs…"

And Sherlock continued, pouring his heart out for John to see. Told him that this was usually his last resort, told him about the Voice, told him about the guilt. Told him about being called a freak, a weirdo, about being ostracized against his will. Told him about how he emulated his brother so he wouldn't have to be hurt. Told him that after Eurus he was finally aware of why he felt guilty, and that he fully agreed with the Voice. He told John about why he really took the drugs, and why it sometimes wasn't enough. And when he was done, there were wet streaks on his face. His own voice remained steady, but his vision did not. Sherlock took his hand out of John's grasp to wipe the tears away, to remove the blurriness, and saw John. Still patient, still worried.

"Aren't you going to yell at me?"

John broke his spell of silence as well as his grip on Sherlock's hands. "Sherlock, I'm not going to yell at you." He stood up, walking towards Sherlock's bed. "I'm not mad at you for feeling guilty about that, I'm mad that you didn't tell me about it. Although I do understand why you wouldn't want to…" John trailed off as he grabbed a large cream-coloured blanket from the bed. He brought it back to Sherlock, still on the floor, watching John with an almost confused look on his face.

"You look like you're in shock. Here, have a blanket."

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle a bit at the remark as he took it gratefully. It brought back good memories. John gave him a small smile, and sat down again, this time beside his friend. Some of the life had crept back into his dull eyes. They stayed like that for some time, until Sherlock's breathing was completely even.

"I hate the color white."

John blinked, and looked over to Sherlock in confusion. His sheets, walls, floors, everything was white. Why would he bring that up?

"People think that white is good and black is bad. Yin and yang. Day and night. Angels and demons. I don't understand why."

"Sherlock, what are you on about?"

"Prisons are white, not grey. You've seen them. There's not as many gray iron bars everywhere as is portrayed. There's white walls, the floors are usually white. Hospitals, too. Though some hospitals might as well be prisons. Mycroft convinced our parents that I needed to be in a mental hospital when I was 16. Everything is white and you're only allowed colors when you're supervised. And ashes are white, like the remains of our Musgrave home. You've seen dead bodies, we both have. They're pale, no blood bringing color to them. The pills that the cabbie had the day we moved in together, white. It's just a bad color, it means death or entrapment or disease. I hate it." His voice was soft, but not small. It was almost as if he was explaining his deductions, but there was nothing in front of him to deduce.

"Why do you surround yourself with white, then?"

"Why do you think, John?"

The pair fell silent again. This was why Sherlock didn't want anyone in his bedroom. Not because they might move something out of place, not because they might find drugs (or blades, he realizes now), but because they would be joining him in a prison. The consulting detective didn't want the innocent to be convicted. This was his cell, his hospital room, his mortuary.

"Sherlock," John said, then hesitated. He didn't want to put any ideas in his head, and he didn't want to make him angry or upset by bringing it up, but…

"Sherlock, do you want to die?" The man's head snapped up to look at John.

"Wha- I- um… I mean, I don't- uh, I'm not sure," he stuttered.

"Tell me the truth."

"John, I- I don't know. I wouldn't necessarily be upset if I knew it was coming, I don't know that I would one hundred percent try to stop it if it were right ahead of me. I don't want to kill myself, if that's what you mean, but, um-" Sherlock paused awkwardly, "Well, I want to stay alive to keep the people I love safe, but if I could die without hurting anyone, then I would take the chance."

Suicidal ideation. John knew what that was like. He'd gone through it when Sherlock was playing dead. He'd witnessed it growing up with Harry. He'd been the unofficial therapist for the army men with it. If anything, John could at least be consoled by the fact that it wasn't an impulse Sherlock would act on.

They stayed silent for a while, again.

"Sherlock, do you have any others?" John asked, gesturing to the ziploc bag in front of them. His hesitation was answer enough. "Can I have them, please?"

It was a command, not a question. Sherlock moved slowly, keeping the blanket wrapped around him. To his violin case. Opening it ever so slowly. Only two razors, both capped with plastic toppers. Trust Sherlock to be OCD about what he used to hurt himself. He stared at them as he made his way back to John, almost as if he didn't want to part with them. He likely didn't.

"Those are the only ones."

John watched his face, looking for a sign that Sherlock was lying, but found nothing. He pocketed the razors as well as the ziploc bag to dispose of them where Sherlock wouldn't try to find them.

"I'm gonna take Rosie for a walk after I get her from Mrs Hudson in the morning- err, in a few hours. Would you like to join us?"

Another command in disguise. Sherlock didn't particularly mind, however; John was his doctor, his blogger, his friend. He could trust John.


	6. Chapter 6

Quick Note: Thanks to deadliestdistractionRN for notifying me that I originally uploaded this chapter incorrectly :)

"Da-ah!"

"Good morning to you, too, Rosie," John greeted his child as she reached for him. "I hope she wasn't too much trouble, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, nonsense. She had so much fun with Molly she practically passed out last night!"

"I'll have to ask her how she did it, then."

Mrs Hudson chuckled. She truly was a godsend, in John's eyes. He and Sherlock hadn't gotten home until just after ten last night, and Rosie's bedtime was eight o'clock sharp. A light sleeper like her father, she would've been very angry and very fussy had John picked her up last night.

"Besides, even you two need a date night every once in a while."

John sighed. This, again? "Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and I are not dating."

This earned him an incredulous look from the woman. Then the door to 221B opened, and Sherlock was there, skipping steps.

"I'm sorry John, didn't realize you'd left already. Ah, yes, good morning Mrs Hudson," He bent down to place a chaste kiss on her cheek. "And John isn't lying, we are not a couple." Sherlock told her.

(Here I should mention that most anyone who had seen Sherlock expressing his emotions at any point would have been able to tell that there was a tinge of sadness to his tone. That said, Mrs Hudson did notice. John did as well, but he wrote it off as tiredness, because while John had fallen asleep in his room for another few hours, Sherlock had spent the rest of the night in the living room, staring out the window. Of course, John's mind would have found some excuse if Sherlock had slept perfectly well, because he still believed that Sherlock could not love. But Mrs Hudson did hear it, and she sighed quietly to herself, wondering if John was going to torture Sherlock like this forever.)

"Well, good morning to you too, Sherlock. What has you up this early?"

"I asked him to come on a walk with Rosie and I this morning."

Sherlock nodded and went to close her door, saying "We shall see you later, Mrs Hudson!", and quieter, "Oh, so sorry," when he realized the door was blocked from closing by her foot.

Sherlock and John walked next to each other in silence for some time. John had gotten Rosie's stroller, and they took turns pushing it. She babbled to herself, but would occasionally push her head backwards so she could look at John or Sherlock as if expecting an answer. They would give a very serious reply, "Of course, Rosie," "Oh, no doubt about that," "Really? They said that?", and she would make a happy gurgling sound and go right back to her incoherent speech. When they reached Regent's Park, John nudged Sherlock to go to the left, and didn't notice Sherlock's flicker of disappointment when the contact was gone so soon.

"Thank you." Sherlock inhaled a shaky breath, holding up a finger to silence John before he could open his mouth, "John, I'm sorry for worrying you last night. You were in the army, I know seeing that kind of thing isn't good for you… but you didn't get upset. I have to thank you for that. You did that with the drugs, too. Mycroft, my parents, they yelled and got angry with me. You told me that you would do anything to help me stop, didn't demand that I quit it, didn't tell me I was wasting my talents. So, yeah. But if it's too much trouble for you, to have a baby and a Sherlock Holmes, then I can leave Baker Street for a while, I'm sure I could find somewhere to stay. I want you and Rosie to be happy, and if my-" He paused for a second there, then waved his hands around his head, "-issues make it harder for you to focus on yourselves then I will do everything in my power to keep that away from you two."

John stopped walking for a moment. He pushed Rosie's stroller into the grass and pulled Sherlock off the path as well. Hands on the taller man's shoulders, he looked Sherlock in the eyes. Hurricane orbs, storms intent on destroying their vessel.

"Sherlock, for a genius, you can be so spectacularly ignorant about some things, you know that?"

"John-"

"No. Stop. Sherlock, what do I have to do to make it clear to you that I'm not leaving your side? And not just because I might be taken out by your brother if I do, but because I care about you. Seriously, I don't think you understand: I'm not giving you a choice. I'm staying whether you like it or not. Once you move in to 221B Baker Street, you become a permanent fixture there. Honestly, I don't think I could leave if I tried."

Sherlock was frozen in place. Rosie stopped talking to a flower she had grabbed and looked over at us.

"Waffa dah!" She cried out, slamming her small hands onto her legs. The angry look on her face made it perfect. Sherlock and John couldn't help but laugh.

"See? Even Rosie knows."

"Well, I guess I have to listen, then."

Rosie broke her glare to giggle. Any tension that had built up dissipated. John pushed her back onto the sidewalk and motioned for Sherlock to come along.

They walked in silence again. It's a funny thing, silence. When a veteran hears silence, they normally hear the echoes of gunshots, the cries of the wounded. Many come to hate silence because of how deafening it can be. And when a depressed person hears silence, they hear voices reciting to them all of their flaws, fabricated laughter at themselves. Many come to hate silence because of how heartless it can be.

Yet Sherlock makes silence quiet for John. And John makes quiet comfortable for Sherlock.

The rest of the walk went by with a continued silence, and all three enjoyed it.


	7. Chapter 7

It wasn't everyday that John would wake up on the couch after a Bond Night to find that Sherlock had fallen asleep using John as a pillow, and it was even less often that he would find Sherlock already awake, yet still not having moved. Actually, this was the first time the latter had happened. Sherlock was sprawled across the couch, legs bent so he could fit within the confines of it, with his head on John's lap. His eyes were open, but he didn't seem to notice that John was now awake as well. It was then that John realized that Sherlock was biting the inside of his lip, something he tended to do when he was lost in thought. Not in his mind palace, just thinking. The calm look suited Sherlock well, and it was not at all easy to resist the temptation to pet his curls.

John glanced over at the baby monitor. Rosie was fast asleep in their room, one arm wound tight around the teddy bear from Mrs Hudson, her opposite hand pulled close to her face. She had fallen asleep on her side, like Sherlock always did. Like Mary always had.

"Mrmph- John?"

John glanced back down, to see Sherlock, now aware of his surroundings... and John's own hand, in the man's hair.

"Oh, sh- sorry- I, uh, wasn't paying attention, sorry." John swiftly removed his hand. Sherlock almost wanted to tell him that no, that was fine, that he'd said his name only because he wondered if he'd slipped back into sleep whilst daydreaming, but he stopped himself, because as far as Sherlock knew, hand-tangled-in-hair was on the list of things to be done with romantic partners and not on the one of things to be done with friends.

So Sherlock got up and moved so he was no longer touching John. But of course, he was Sherlock Holmes. And he could tell when something was wrong.

"John, are you feeling alright? You're doing the thing with your hands, and biti- oh for heaven's sake, your lip is bleeding now."

John looked a bit surprised. Obviously, he hadn't realized he was biting his lip at all. It was almost like how Sherlock was when he was deep in thoughts or daydreams, though he tried not to let the latter be a habit. John mumbled something about eggs and breakfast, but Sherlock was more concerned as to why his friend seemed anxious. It wasn't like John to be high-strung.

Sherlock needed to think. The only ideas he had were most likely wrong. He needed more, needed to find what couldn't be ruled out. He found himself in his bedroom, going to his violin case. He hadn't touched it yet since _that_ night.

Empty. Incomplete. The case looked almost hollow without the secrets that it had hidden for years. But that would make John happy. That's all that mattered. It was a strange feeling for Sherlock, caring so much about someone else's happiness. Of course he cared about all of his few friends, as well as Mycroft (though he'd never admit that), but for John, Sherlock was willing to do anything. Even if it meant he would never be happy again. For John to stay warm, Sherlock would let himself burn; for John to be safe, Sherlock would put himself in the line of danger- which he had already done, actually. From the day he had stepped into 221B, from the day he had called brilliant the man who the day before had been attacking a corpse, from the day he decided to stay with the freak who gets off on crime scenes, John had become Sherlock's sun.

Waltzing around the room with his violin, Sherlock began to theorize.

Reasons John Might Have Felt Anxious

_in love_ **worried about some event** _nightmares_ **being blackmailed**

Four options. As far as Sherlock knew, there was nothing perfect little John could have done that could be used as blackmail. Well, nothing anyone other than Sherlock (and perhaps Mycroft) would know about.

Three options. As far as he knew, the only thing on John's schedule that differed from normal this week was that he didn't work on Wednesday or Thursday. He couldn't remember why that was, but he was pretty sure that John saw not having to go to work as a good thing.

Two options. Either John had started to have nightmares again, or Sherlock's fairy godmother had answered his wishes. And because fairy godmothers didn't exist (besides Mrs. Hudson, of course), the logical solution was that John had begun having nightmares again. Unless…

The bow was moving faster across the strings; Sherlock realized he'd sped into triplets, and brought the tempo back down.

John heard the sounds of violin music; he was grateful to know that Sherlock would be occupied for a while. At least until breakfast was done. He was going to eat something, he didn't get a choice. The music was nice background noise, and was quiet enough that it wouldn't wake sleeping Rosie.

It would be obvious even to the Scotland Yard as to why John was uneasy that morning; this was one case that only Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be able to solve alone. Unfortunately, the only people who knew of this incident were those in 221B.

By the time John was done cooking, Sherlock had transcribed his composition and made up his mind, and Rosie had woken up crying for her father.

The three ate in a mildly awkward state of tension; neither men would bring up that morning's events, and bringing up the James Bond movie they'd watched might trigger that topic. It wasn't silent; they chatted a bit, about cases and Rosie and if she would be walking soon. Sherlock asked if John would let him teach her how to dance, and John just chuckled and resisted the urge to ask if he would re-teach John. Rosie initiated an intense staring contest with her father, and Sherlock took the opportunity to observe the exact colors that made up John's eyes.

There is a beautiful word in Russian that conveys everything that both men felt on this morning, but sadly there is no good single translation for it. The word is _toska_, and it truly is nearly impossible to describe unless one has felt it. Toska is a sensation of great anguish without any specific cause. It is a dull ache of the soul, it is a longing for something unspecific. A sick pining, a vague restlessness, a yearning. It is heartbreak when there is no one to be heartbroken over; nostalgia over something that perhaps never existed;a deep melancholy, but not depression. It is the pang of sadness when Sherlock couldn't ask John to leave his hand in his hair, the guilt when John saw how little Sherlock cared for himself. It was what made up the silence when John came into Sherlock's room in the very early morning with bandages and concern. It was the pit in John's stomach whenever he awoke from a nightmare, and the taste of blood whenever Sherlock thought he'd lost his John. It is the subtle despair that fills them whenever they look into each others' eyes, the moments when they each wish that they could show the passion they felt for the other.

Perhaps this longing was why neither could bring it up; if one spilled their feelings with the certainty that the other could never reciprocate, then the friendship would be lost. The worst nightmares of both involve helplessness; being incapable of saving their loved ones; having to watch the other be burned away from their life. Losing one would be losing everything. Without John, Sherlock's life would be dull, boring, lightless. Without Sherlock, John's life would be repetitive, slow, incomplete. It was better to live wanting, than to live without them.

He could see them, and even without audio it was obvious something was off. Sherlock's mouth wasn't opening as often; he was being absurdly quiet. John seemed dazed as he played mindlessly with Rosie. The unease filling the empty space of 221B Baker Street could be cut with something as dull as an umbrella. It wasn't that he had nothing better to do; Mycroft simply was worried for his brother.

He had installed these cameras a while ago; they were the only ones that Sherlock hadn't found yet. And even though he knew Sherlock despised Mycroft's keeping tabs on him, the eldest Holmes couldn't help himself. There had been one too many times that he had been almost too late, that he had almost become an only son. Grimacing, Mycroft looked away from the screen. The worst part of this memory of his was that he remembered every detail of even the worst things; the doll-eyed blank stare when the boy was 16 in the hospital after his first overdose, the slurred movements of his body in a back alley of London at 20, the quiet tears and tremors and induced hallucinations just after John's wedding. Caring is a disadvantage, but it's not voluntary. No person was truly lacking in sentiment, but some were better at hiding it. Mycroft cared for his siblings; the difference between the two was that Eurus put others in danger, while the only one Sherlock ever intentionally hurt was himself.

Mycroft glanced at the screen again as he prepared to leave. John was carrying an obviously tired Rosie, likely about to put her down for a nap. Sherlock was gone, his coat off the rack. It wasn't to get drugs; if it were, he'd not have taken his scarf. And either way, Rosie meant so much to Sherlock; he had shown Mycroft a picture of her, trying but unable to contain his excitement of being named her godfather.

Sighing, Mycroft stood up. He would make sure they were still at least okay later. If John was gone when he got back, then he would send someone out. For now, he had a country to run.


End file.
